


Framing

by AceDhampir



Category: Criminal Minds: Suspect Behavior
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-12
Updated: 2015-10-12
Packaged: 2018-04-26 03:34:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,897
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4988626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AceDhampir/pseuds/AceDhampir
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A Break up with someone Mick loves sends him on the brink. The path to sobriety is a hard one, especially when he's alone back home in Wales working to rent out his old childhood home. If he can last the month, he can last the rest of his life, right?</p><p>Note: this is a collection of blogs I've written recently for RP. For once, this is not cowritten.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Framing

Day one.

What happens when you just fuck up and can't fix a damn thing about it?

That question has been running over and over in his head. The ride he borrowed was sweet enough- he's going to pretend he's normal, pack his bags and head home for a few days. There's rain outside and the temperature is dropping so fast his knees ache.

He doesn't plan to do anything beyond stay at the house for just a little bit, keep himself occupied and keep himself from losing it on alcohol. Maybe that makes Wales a bit of a bad idea, but what's a better why to fix yourself than head home?

 

_"First off, you drink way too much. It makes me uncomfortable."_

_"You've ruined my reputation here."  
_

_"I need a break."_

 

Oh how he knows. He's waited for the perfect time to quit. This seems to be it. Smoking, too, but he can't let go of that just yet. Baby steps.

The airport is a familiar site, and he quickly hustles over to a booth for his tickets, chatting with the friendly, tired woman trapped their for another two hours until her shift is close. Mick understands, he knows he's had a rough day, so he keeps from yelling at her when the printer screws up by scratching. An entire day without a smoke or a drink has him on edge, and he can't help but focus that energy on something else.

The metal detectors. Off comes his shoes, out comes his wallet, and he takes a minute to stare at the two golden rings he has in a small pouch in his pocket. One of them is his, obviously, and the other his partners. It hurts to see them both in one spot instead of the hand they're supposed to be on, but he just sighs and slips them in the box. They'll stay in his carry on until he lands. 

Maybe if he just leaves for a few days it'll help. Disappear to Swansea, see his sister, he nephew, spend some time at the Square, maybe then he'll get over it. Maybe then he wont feel like he's fucked up, ruined things for other people and feel like he's made someone so upset they've had to separate themselves from him. He can't stand thinking about it. 

There's a bar in the waiting area, but he rushes past to grab something with caffeine in it. Anything, really, he just wants to drown out the pain with something else.  He's already got his arm covered in torn up gauze from scratching, like he thinks that'll help. It's already been a day and he's that bad. When he starts to withdrawal, he can only imagine how horrible he'll be.

Which is why he needs to be home.

He needs to fix what he destroyed. 

But he doesn't know if it'll help anything. He thinks about it the entire trip to Wales. Seventeen hours. There's a few movies he watches, things that just shove him farther into the back of his own mind to slip from the view of everyone else. He just needs to vanish. 

Three days. And then he'll know what to do.

Day Two

Home.

Wales will always be home. He loves the country. Loves the little things, loves the ridiculous names of cities, loves that fact that he can remember his mother arguing with her neighbor about the term “popty ping”, or hearing his father sing “How To Say  _Llanfair­pwllgwyngyll­gogery­chwyrn­drobwll­llan­tysilio­gogo­goch_ ” to his sister. Funny thing was- the man was from Ireland, yet he knew that song by heart, probably to win over their mother. Just the thought of it brings a twitch to his mouth.

His parent’s place is nothing special- tucked in the more quiet neighborhoods in Swansea, but the memories he still has here tend to make him wonder if he’s making the right choice keeping it. Jenna said she didn’t want it- said it hurt too much. And it does hurt.

The previous owner kept everything. The floorboards his father replaced- the photos no one came to claim, even kept their childhood rooms the same. He’d come there a year before with the love of his life, and now being back here with the house so haunted makes him feel like he’s surrounded by ghosts. 

He’s cleaned out his old room by now- lots to get rid of. He figures he’ll just donate it and get rid of it. A new mattress is bought, and he’s already working on moving into the master bedroom. New sheets, too. He nearly broke down at the sight of their old comforter still neatly folded away in a closet. His nan never let them come back and get their parent’s things, and even twenty years later seeing it just...

Breaks him.

There’s so much work to do before he can rent the place out. New furniture is needed, the plumbing is a damn wreck, but his pet project for a week seems to be already planned out in his head. The scratching’s stopped since he’s been so busy, and he hasn’t stopped for a drink once. He considers that an achievement. Smoking, though, he’s still on the back porch for another break. Seems like he’s trying, though.

He hasn’t gotten a call or a text in two days. He knows it’s not because he doesn’t care, but because it’s just...better that way. Everything gets better when he just leaves, and goddamn it, he needed to go. Jenna's still pissed at him, Akiyama now has Victoria and Jim Corrigan at his place...So the next logical place to go was Wales.

Swansea, he thinks, hasn’t changed much. At least, his little corner. New neighbors, new people, and there’s an American next door, but he seems to fit back into the lifestyle of the average Welshman rather easily. And perhaps he needs this. He pretends he’s normal, lets the kills get way too his head and sometimes forgets what he really is.

Human.

Work for the day stops when he discovers a photo frame stashed away in a closet, and the sight of it makes his chest heave. She was beautiful, his mum. Kind, loved her family. What would she think of him now? The mess he’s become, the fact he hasn’t managed to make himself right since the war, the fact he can’t move on...

It breaks him to know what would happen if she ever did come back. He knows people who can bring the dead back- he’s entertained the thought. but she would hate him. Hate the messes he’s made. Chastise him for what he’s done to the one person he’s managed to love. He can’t really bear the thought of that.

His night ends with sobbing and a cold, empty house in a country that’s become foreign to him. He can’t help but wonder if he’s even made the right choice coming home.

Home.

Home is a flat in Detroit, with a cat and two noisy birds, where he can be safe and comfortable and watch his stupid British television without worry that someone will make fun of him for still watching Top Gear at 2 am. Where he doesn’t have to worry he’ll be found out for the fraud he is, that he’ll be erased and removed from the world. He doesn’t fear that in Detroit.

Here?

No one even knows him. And maybe that’s for the better. Maybe he needs a fresh start.

Day Three.

When the first relapse hits he's almost not paying attention to what he's doing.

He doesn't know his blood pressure has fallen and that his blood sugar is dangerously low. He hasn't eaten anything. He hasn't really had anything to drink- water to stay hydrated when the headaches come. He's been locked in that house for days. When was the last time he bought food?

He doesn't notice until he abruptly passes out while trying to hang something in the house. The pressure was too much, and he fell backwards, luckily, not on his head. The stress, the withdrawals, the insomnia, all of it is laying a part. 

Luckily, his sister was supposed to visit that day.

When he wakes, he's being yelled at about eating. He just forgets sometimes, it's harder when you're alone and no one casually says "I need to eat" to remind you. He's lived like that before, it's a wonder he didn't die the first time. 

 

_"Meical. Ya can't do that."_

_"I know, Jen."_

_"Do you?"_

_"I promise. I'm just...busy."_

_"Too busy to take care of yourself?"_

_"I told you. I'm trying."_

_"Tryin' to kill yourself, more like."_

 

She doesn't believe him. He doesn't really believe himself. She tells him the house is getting to him. All those memories and all those connections to the accident can't be good on his already broken head. He could agree with her, but really, she doesn't know he's supposed to be cured. That Grendel had a hand in healing him and now it's just  _him_  this time.

He asks her to bring him a drink, and like the good sister she is, she refuses, saying he'll just fall even worse. It just pisses him off and he yells at her until she leaves. He feels bad, but he can't help it, he's hungry and angry and about ready to let himself loose on the world. Thankfully, the man has enough self control to try and calm himself down. 

So he forces himself to relax. Forces himself to eat. 

The withdrawals are strong and he's so tempted to pick up a whiskey when he finally goes out to buy food. But he manages to get a grip and move on. 

When he returns, he feels like all hell has broken loose. An expensive vase his parents probably saved money for is smashed on the tile floors. Sheets are torn, the wallpaper he's failing to apply is ripped to shreds. A hole is punched through the drywall, the bits on the floor bloody from his bleeding fist. So much anger. So much just bottled up inside. So much to destroy. 

The break down comes when his knuckles are completely raw and he's in too much pain to deliver more blows to the living room wall. The scream he lets out is full of the pent up frustration at losing what he couldn't keep and he just...collapses, palms pressed into his eyes as his back slams against the wall, slowly falling until his ass is on the floor.

His breathing is ragged and he's shaking, trying to slip out his cigarettes from his pocket. His hand hurts to move and he can't stop the jitters that keep him from getting it in his mouth. eventually, though, he succeeds, lighting up and letting the sweet, yet disgusting taste bring him down. There's a sniff, he hadn't realized how much that hurt. But it felt good. Felt so, so good.

A glance to his hand is made before he leans over to grab bits of the torn sheet he'd thrown out of one of the rooms. His hand is patched up, though he probably wont be using it for a while. Stupid. Bloody, fucking stupid.

That's him in a nutshell. 

_ Always breaking the things he needs the most. _

 


End file.
